


The Real Monsters

by negickapologist (neganstonguething)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, PTSD, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, this is not a happy fic guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:32:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9644498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neganstonguething/pseuds/negickapologist
Summary: Got this request: "Can I request a fic about how when Negan makes Carl lay face down in the premiere, Carl gets a flashback about almost getting raped by Joe and his group, and have some sort of mental breakdown in front of Negan and everyone?"Needless to say, this is a pretty depressing work. Be sure to pay attention to the warnings before reading. Shit's super important, y'all.If you'd like to send in a fic request, my tumblr is http://neganstonguething.tumblr.com





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Carl remembers entertaining the idea of a zombie apocalypse at a much younger age. He remembers thinking about making sure you pick out the biggest gun with the loudest boom, and firing away endlessly until the dead all collapsed at the ground before you. He remembers laughing at the spray of pixelated videogame blood and trying not to curse around his Uncle Shane when he'd die in the middle of the game. Up until he was seven years old, Carl's image of the danger of a widespread zombie disease had always been the zombies themselves.

Never once had he thought to fear the ones holding the guns. Carl had not even once humored the notion that the living would be the bad guys—that he and his family would be held at gunpoint time and time again, witness people's demons coming right out to the surface, and face humanity at its absolute barest, cruelest, and most depraved.

But they've done it countless times now. And here they are, about to do it all over again.

The worst part about submitting is not knowing what the ones you're submitting to are thinking. Are they going to shoot you anyway? Do they just want a reaction? Or do they maybe want something more? Carl can safely say he's seen 'em all.

Hell, he's _been_ one of them. He and his father and damn near everyone in his group...they've all been on the strong side of the gun before. Most of them have killed with it. You don't have a choice in this world. You don't get to be weak, anymore. That's not the way things work.

This one calls himself Negan. And the people surrounding him also call themselves Negan. And unlike the weird, brainwashed dynamic from the people of Woodbury, these guys come by their murders honest. Negan's already killed two people, and now, he's pacing around Rick, going on about how he'd just finished driving him around because he doesn't care for the way Rick _looks_ at him.

Negan's a whole new level of asshole. It's not just in his colorful vocabulary, or in the things he says. It's in the way he _moves_. He's cocky and full of himself, and Carl can see it in his eyes—he honestly thinks he's going to do the world some good with the way he's going about things right now. Carl probably shouldn't be one to judge, considering that he and Rick have both had ideas about less-than-pleasant methods for keeping their people safe. They've both killed simply because they thought they had to.

But there's just something about Negan.

He's asking Rick now if he deserves another chance, and Carl absolutely _hates_ that his father answers with something so simple and pathetic as a pleading, “Yeah.” And then he even goes so far as to repeat himself. To lower himself beneath this man and act like what he's doing is _okay_. Hadn't they promised the Hilltop community that they were going to get _rid_ of Negan?

Carl probably shouldn't fault him. This whole situation sucks in every way possible. Everyone's on their knees, and Negan is now beckoning for his men to point guns at their heads. They've already seen what could happen if they try and fight back, and Negan has ensured that they're grossly outnumbered. But still, Carl can't look past how damned _wrong_ his father's response sounds.

The guns click almost musically as they're raised to the back of people's heads. “Good,” Negan starts, “level with their noses so that if you have to fire,” he makes a gesture with his hands and lets out a noise that has Carl wishing he had the guns to just blow this guy's brains out already, “it'll be a... _real_ mess.”

God, he's _so condescending_. Carl hates him. He hates him with every ounce of his being, and he hates that he can't just rise up and tackle the asshole. Look at what this bastard has reduced his father to. Look at who he's _killed_. And he's playing it off like all he'd done was knock over someone's drink.

Carl thinks about Glenn, and he thinks about Abraham. And Daryl, and his father. He thinks about everything that has happened in the course of one night. They can't go home from this okay. They're going to have to pick up the pieces all over again. Maggie might die, and she looks even worse now that she's got that horrible layer of grief on her face. Sasha's struggling to hold her composure, and even Michonne looks lost.

Carl _feels_ lost. And after so long being able to live a somewhat normal life, he hates this feeling. He has no idea what's going to happen beyond today. Negan's so unpredictable that he hasn't even decided if everyone's going to be able to walk away from this alive.

“Kid.” Negan's voice is like sandpaper on a sunburn at this point, but Carl regards him nonetheless. By now, he's standing directly next to Rick, and he's motioning with one gloved finger for Carl to come toward him. He points down to the ground in front of him. “...Right here.”

Carl freezes, and Negan notices. His tone hardens. “...Kid. _Now_.”

Negan's voice is gratingly deep. Deep and terrifying in its own way. It makes Carl feel helpless, and he can't think of many times he'd felt utterly vulnerable like this. The last time he had...it makes his throat clench just thinking about it. Oh, god...what is Negan going to do?

He sees the same concern on his father's face—watches Rick's eyes dart back and forth between Negan and the ground and Carl himself. They both share the same fear. What other lengths is Negan willing to go to in order to get his point across? What does the 'chance' Rick had pleaded for entail?

Finally, Carl approaches. He ignores the way his knees threaten to buckle, and shuffles to where he's been directed. His skin prickles uncomfortably, and it feels like fire on his nerve endings by the time he's standing in front of Negan.

And then Negan slides his belt out of the loops of his pants.

The world around Carl fades and gives way to an entirely different setting. A dark and humid night. He hears laughter, and feels grubby hands wrapping around his body. A man who stinks of sweat and oil buries his face in Carl's hair and inhales sharply, before growling out to his leader how he's 'got the kid'.

“...You a southpaw?” A distant voice drags Carl back to reality, and he finds himself standing in front of Negan once more.

“Am I a _what_?” Carl chokes.

Negan looks unimpressed. “Are you a lefty?”

Carl steels himself—tries his best not to look as weak as his father does right now. He narrows his eye and cocks his head to the side, before chewing out in the most bitter voice he can manage, “No.”

Negan raises both eyebrows, and then reaches out and seizes Carl's left arm. “Good.”

There's a sick relief in watching the belt be used on his arm instead of somewhere else. Negan affixes it to his upper arm, a handful of inches above his elbow, and then tightens it. “...That hurt?” He questions, his voice more casual than Carl has heard it ever since he introduced himself at the beginning of the night.

“No.” Carl bites back again. His confidence resurfaces.

Negan looks amused. “...Should. It's supposed to.” Again, Carl is reminded just how disturbing of a person this guy is, just by the expression on his face. He looks like he thinks that what he said was funny. Newsflash though, jackass: no one's laughing. Not even your own cronies.

“Alright.” Negan moves back just a couple of inches and nods to the gravel beneath their feet. “Get down on the ground, kid. Right next to Daddy. All the way down, on your belly.”

Carl's blood runs cold. He swallows what feels like a boulder in his throat, and turns his head slowly to stare into those uncaring hazel eyes Negan's watching him with. “...I...No.”

Negan squints in disbelief, and then his eyebrows fly up again as he grasps the hat on Carl's head and tosses it away. “ _Now._ Spread them wings!”

Carl doesn't want this. He doesn't like this feeling, and it stems from so much more than just disliking being at this guy's mercy. His gaze meets his father's, and then his father's seeks out Michonne's. Michonne grits her teeth, and then she looks at Carl. She mouths 'you can do this'. And he knows that she's right—that for the sake of himself and everyone else, he needs to listen.

But, damn it..!

He wills himself to obey. Drops down to his knees, and does as his father is. The gravel digs into the palms of his hands, but he's only mildly aware of that. He's gawking at the earth beneath him as if it might disappear and he might just get lucky enough to fall straight through it. He hears Negan's footsteps, and his breathing hitches.

“Either you've gone the entire apocalypse without taking so much as one goddamned q-tip to your earholes,” Negan growls, and the proximity of his voice tells Carl he's close, but he can't bring himself to look, “or you're being a defiant little shit. Regardless, you're fucking around _dangerously_ close to the line where I kill more of your people, so I'd highly suggest you figure your shit out and _get down on the ground._ All the way, kid.”

And with a shove of Negan's hand on his shoulder, Carl's gone. The gravel beneath his fingers, the cold air brushing hard against the skin of his cheeks, the tight hold of the belt around his arm...it's all gone. And he's that kid again—that poor kid who watched in horror as his father and Daryl and Michonne were subjugated.

The man holding him shoves him face-down into the ground, and Carl smells the dirt beneath him. He coughs and struggles against the grip. He's not big enough, and this man is incredibly strong and merciless. His hands are slimy with sweat as they fight Carl's swings off, and then he's wheeling Carl around onto his back.

These are the real monsters. This man doesn't have to snarl and try to bite him to look scary. No, it's all in the constant grin on his face and the demented laughter, and in how he finds amusement in Carl's absolute horror over the situation. It's in his the grip of his fingertips on the button to his pants, and the fact that his frightened screams have no effect.

Carl notices everything, from the monster's jagged teeth, to his beady eyes, to the husk in his voice that tells him something _very bad_ is about to happen. He screams as loud as he can manage, struggles desperately to free himself from the guy's grip, and then he hears the wet sounds of blood hitting the ground. Turns his head just in time to see his father spit a chunk of flesh and muscle off to the side, and the monster at his mercy collapses to the ground.

And then he's screaming. He's screaming and he's on his stomach, and the gravel is digging into his face. Something cold and wet runs along his forearm, and something hot and wet and stinging drags down his cheek and across his nose.

He's back in the present, and everyone's staring at him. Negan's holding a marker, eyebrows scrunched down in confusion. Next to him, Rick is gawking down at his son. His eyes are wide, and Carl swears he sees them well up. He knows his dad knows why he's afraid. He sobs harder at the thought alone. God, he doesn't want this. He hates this. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he doesn't care that he has an audience.

He breaks down. His eye squeezes shut and he screams again, drooling and sniffling and hiccuping right there on the ground. His body trembles against the earth beneath him, and his wrist protests against the fingers holding it down.

A part of Carl wants to die right there. He's fed up with being strong, and with fighting, and with repeatedly being knocked right back down. He's embarrassed and humiliated and miserable. He hates Negan and he hates that man from so long ago. He feels like throwing up, but he can't find the time to do so in between the heaving and convulsing of his anguished body.

But another part of him wants to try. He wants to see them make it out of this mess, and make Negan pay. To dig his heels into the soil and help his community claim their rightful place in this world. He wants to see Judith grow up, and see his father have even a slight chance at peace. He just wants things to be okay, and he's so very tired of being the feisty, brave child he's been making himself be since he was seven years old.

Eventually, Carl's body relaxes, his breakdown reduced to gentle hiccups. He dares to open his eye, which is blurry from the moisture in it, and turns his gaze up to Negan.

“Jesus shit,” Negan starts, clearly confused, “I put that thing on your arm at least thirty seconds before you started squealing. The fuck is wrong with you?”

Carl narrows his eyes, and he hates how pitiful his voice sounds right now. “Shut up. Whatever you're gonna do, just _do it._ I want to go home.”

And he does. He wants Negan and his _other Negans_ to fuck off somewhere so that he can lie down in bed and forget that any of this happened. He wants to see Judith, and to hug her. And maybe, he even wants to throw his arms around Michonne and his father and lose it just one more time. His family is right there—right _there_ , damn it—and he still feels so very alone right now.

“Alright, kid. Whatever you say.” And then Negan's on his feet. He takes a few steps past Rick, and then glances sideways and down at him. “Rick, I want you to take your ax...cut your son's arm off, right on that line.”

Carl sees the horror on his father's face, and he feels it in himself, too. But he's tired. So, so tired. And the faster they get this done, the faster they can get Maggie to the Hilltop community. She looks terrible, and they're not losing a third person today.

So he looks straight at his dad—straight through all the begging and the pleading and the crying, and straight through the shaking of his head and the repeated 'it can be me' Rick's uttering. Carl's gaze is strong, locking Rick's to his own. He's silently pleading for his dad to just _get it over with_. He wants to be done. He wants to go _home_.

 


End file.
